Page 79 of Big Dill

“They’re partnering up out there,” he says. “Could be a good idea.”

“Does she like ferrets?” I add, grinning despite myself.

He smirks. “She actually has a thing for otters.”

I cock my head, wanting—needing—to hear more, but he chuckles and gently spins me around. “Go grab your shower. You’ll find soap, shampoo, and towels in there.”

I nod and walk away, heart still buzzing from the tease. The bathroom smells faintly of eucalyptus and Brody. I strip off my clothes, the heat from hot yoga clinging to my skin, and step under the shower. The water hits, washing away sweat and tension. I lather with his soap and shampoo, letting the familiar scent wrap around me. When I finally finish, I realize I smell like him again.

I don’t hate it.

I tug on my clean clothes, tie my damp hair back into a ponytail, and pause in front of the mirror. I consider makeup. Elise wore makeup. She looked…very pretty.

Stop it.

Why am I suddenly sizing myself up against a woman I’ve known for thirty seconds?

Absolutely ridiculous.

Brody’s clinic is empty when I step back inside, and somehow that hollow feeling in my stomach grows. My eyes scan the room, half-expecting him to appear from nowhere.

Then I spot a kale smoothie on his desk. My eyes dart to a note in his handwriting:

Take a minute to replenish, and I’ll see you on the court. Let’s kick some Team Ferret and His Otter Half.

I laugh, dropping into his chair and taking a slow sip. I reread the note, smiling so wide it hurts. The guy is funny, kind, considerate…basically an all-around lumber-snack.

Careful, Jami. You’re not here to fall for Big Dill.

Which is good. Because I’m not falling for him.

Not even a little tiny bit.

Okay…maybe a little tiny bit.

18

Jami

“I thought you said you sucked at pickleball,” Liam says, sidling up beside me at Moose and Mugs while I nurse a beer.

I don’t normally drink beer. Wine is more my speed. Cocktails if I’m feeling festive. But when in Rome…or Churchill Falls, apparently you drink whatever’s cold and comes in a pint glass.

“I don’t know where that came from,” I admit. “I played tennis. Maybe some dormant muscle memory woke up and chose violence.”

“Impressive violence,” he says, lifting his glass.

I shrug. “Or maybe Brody’s just a good teacher.”

The moment his name leaves my mouth, my eyes betray me, drifting toward the long hallway that leads to the restrooms. Brody appears right on cue, tall and broad-shouldered, laughing about something Jaxon just said.

I tear my gaze away before it becomes obvious. Or more obvious.

“Or,” I add quickly, grasping for another explanation. “Maybe it’s in our blood. Jaxon is a professional athlete. Osmosis. Genetics. Proximity to sweaty sports equipment.”

Liam grins and takes a long swig of his beer.

I swivel on my stool, scanning the pub—sticky tables, low lighting, the comforting smell of fried food and spilled alcohol—until I spot Elise across the room, deep in conversation with someone near the jukebox.